I am not soft anymore. I burned the petals they told me to wear. No more wilted apologies sewn into my spine. No more bending for comfort I never received. I am flame now. All edges. All echoes. All ache. Born from silence they mistook for surrender, I learned to rise without applause. Call me too much— I’ll call it survival. Call me loud— I’ll call it healing. I do not bloom gently. I burst open. I bleed thunder. I kiss the scars and still dance in wildfire. I have stitched rage into poetry, and turned heartbreak into home. You want softness? Go to the version of me I buried. This girl? She’s ash-proof.